Milking Prayer

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Milking, all year long but especially in winter, is my favorite chore on the farm. Before her teat injury, Creme Brulee was our best milk goat. She gave 3/4 gallon of milk per milking and her big teats made for easy milking. Every morning I prep the milk buckets inside, sanitizing them then filling one with warm soapy water. I head out the kitchen door, bundled up against the cold, fill the grain bucket on the milk stand and leave the gate open at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t need to take a lead rope, Creme knows the drill. I open the gate for her and she sets off running for the milk stand. She beats me there and I close her head in the stand lock. The first task is to wash her udder. It feels good to plunge my cold hands into the warm, soapy water, washing her udder all over, knocking off any stray hairs or dirt. Then I wash my hands and begin to milk. The first couple squirts get directed off the porch to the waiting mouth of a cat or dog before I place the stainless steel pail below the udders. The milking rhythm is easy for me to find, second nature by now. Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release. The first few streams to hit the pail ring out the tin-y rhythm. On cold mornings I lean into Creme to feel the heat of her large body, my face pressed against her belly listening to the sounds of her heart, muffled by the churning of her rumen. My hands warm quickly with the work of milking and the warmth of her udder. It’s an intimate act, milking another animal. She has to trust you and you her. You can’t just throw any animal up on the milk stand, grab her teats and expect good milk. It takes time and relationship. A hasty or unkind hand drives the goat to kick the bucket spoiling it or spilling it all over you. An untrusting goat may hold back her milk, refusing to let down, struggling and fighting on the stand. With Creme it is all peace. We know each other and the rhythm of our milking together.

 

When we first started our farm I was hesitant to bring on a dairy animal. Having milked goats before as part of a co-op, I knew that milking is an everyday obligation and ties one to the farm in ways nothing else can. I was still nursing baby Jake at the time and would often quip that I needed to be the only animal in milk on our farm. When Creme Brulee finally arrived, I fell right into the rhythm of every day milking. Rather than a burden, it became a ritual that defined my day. We are in between milking right now. Since Creme’s teat injury I have not had another goat step up to regular milking. Our cow, Molly Weasley, is due in March, at which time my milking ritual will resume. I miss the milking. I miss the ritual of the pre-milking prep. I miss the quiet of the milking stand. I miss the warmth and intimacy of the milking relationship. I miss the time to pray and the way I hear God’s voice more distinctly as the stream of milk hits the steel of my bucket. I’ve tried other disciplines of prayer, following a prayer book, setting aside some quiet inside before the kids wake for the day, even this habit of writing, but nothing compares to milking. A line from Mary Oliver’s prayer “The Summer Day” comes to mind. “I don’t know exactly what a prayer is/ I do know how to pay attention.” I don’t know exactly what a prayer is either, but I do know how to milk a goat and in my milking I find myself drawing closer to God.

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